


A Soft Place to Land

by pocketsizedquasar



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 04:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20057914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsizedquasar/pseuds/pocketsizedquasar
Summary: In which Queequeg gets a much-deserved and much-needed hug.





	A Soft Place to Land

**Author's Note:**

> title's a reference to a song from Waitress. i stole the idea for Queequeg calling Ishmael "Mae" as a nickname from my friend Livie and it's literally the most adorable thing ever, bless her soul for the idea

Queequeg is used to holding, used to protecting, used to giving. He is, perhaps, too used to it for his own good, too willing to throw himself into harm’s way if it means keeping someone else safe, but he doesn’t really see it as a problem. He is comfortable in the feel of his own strength, happiest when he can see the good it does rippling around and out from him. 

And so he protects. He dives into the sea after that brainless man who mocked him, after a sinking head to save his friend, after a poor forgotten castaway left to die. He protects—he stands by Tash and Daggoo when their mates berate them, he listens to the concerns of his fellow oarsmen and does his best to pass them upwards, he holds Ishmael close when his terror traps him inside the rattling of his own skull. Queequeg protects and it is easy for him, too easy, second-nature, doesn’t-have-to-think-about-it and forgets-he’s-even-doing-it easy. Even as his tiny ship-shaped world starts to fall apart around him, he protects; even as each day leaves him less certain and more afraid, he protects. And it is easy. 

It is harder for him to find that for himself. He can be the brave face his crew needs to see in the bows of their whaleboat, he can give the encouragement his fellow harpooners need to persist at this deadly game, he can be the shelter his Ishmael needs against his fears, but he cannot do that if he falters, if he breaks, if he needs them too. He wouldn’t put that on them. 

And so he protects. And does not ask, does not need. It is enough, he tells himself, to see the good that he can give. 

Ishmael _ knows _ him, though. He knows his Queequeg in all his selflessness, all his courage and fear. He knows the unease toiling behind his eyes and the apprehension edging his thoughts, even when Queequeg himself has gotten so used to it he no longer sees it. He knows that Queequeg will give and give without a second thought, that he will give until he is spent and keep going without realizing it, will spend so long fighting underwater that he forgets he needs to breathe. 

Ishmael is uncertain of how to approach it. Wants to give without imposing, wants to talk without frightening away. He waits to catch him alone. 

Queequeg comes to him late at night. A voice somewhere astern calls eight bells—the watch changes, the ship beneath them stirring and breathing and humming with all her midnight mechanics. He finds Ishmael, slides an arm wordlessly across his shoulder. They stand in silent conversation with the waves lapping against the ship’s black hull. 

“You okay?” comes Queequeg’s question, mechanical, unthinking. He smiles softly, but Ishmael can almost physically feel the weight that pulls at him. His dark eyes are glassy, far-off, so, so exhausted. 

Ishmael reaches up, pulls Queequeg to him. He can feel Queequeg start to settle, almost automatically, into holding him, can hear him start to whisper his soft encouragement, but Ishmael shifts and pulls him tighter, wraps his arms up round Queequeg’s shoulders, closes a soft hand around the back of his head and tries his best to make him feel _ held _. 

Queequeg flinches beneath the touch. His muscles tense at its unfamiliarity and he freezes and shakes his head and stutters, “Mae, what—what are—“

“Shh, hey. It’s okay.” Ishmael gives him a squeeze, presses a kiss to the side of his neck and whispers against his skin, “it’s okay.” He feels Queequeg trembling against him. 

“I don’t—“ Queequeg’s voice catches. His breathing is heavy and slow, like he’s suddenly remembered what exhaustion’s supposed to feel like. He tries to speak again, but nothing comes out. 

“Hey, hey.” Ishmael rubs soft circles into his back. “You are safe, right now.”

Queequeg breaks at that. Folds against Ishmael, curls into a question mark in his arms, buries his head in the crook of Ishmael’s neck and shoulder. 

“It’s okay.”

He shakes and shivers and chokes back a cry as Ishmael holds him and rocks them both and murmurs against him. 

“Don’t — you don’t have to—“ he tries to start, but Ishmael just holds him closer, kisses his neck again, talks to him, voice low and gentle. 

“Shh, shh.” He pulls away, cups Queequeg’s face in his hands, noses and foreheads touching. “You can ask for help, too.” He brushes his lips against Queequeg’s skin. “You can _ breathe _, love.”

Queequeg’s face is pained; a tear streaks down his cheek. “You shouldn’t—“ He hates how difficult the words come to him now, how he has to wrestle with them before he speaks. He averts his eyes, wills the tears to stop. “You shouldn’t have to—help me. I’m—_ okay _. You don’t need to.”

Ishmael caresses his cheek, leans closer, tries to meet his eyes. “Queequeg,” and there is no judgment, no reproach in his voice, “_love_,” Ishmael says, and Queequeg lifts his eyes to his, “I would hope that, by now, for all my blunder, you would have realized there is precious little in this world that I would not do for you.” There is a gentle smile on his lips. 

Queequeg hides his face again, pressing his body to Ishmael’s, clinging to him. 

“I am afraid,” he says, voice small against Ishmael. 

“I know. I—I am too. We all are.”

“I know, but—“

“Please do not ever feel like you have to hide it.” A pause. “Not with me. Never with me.” Ishmael sighs, kisses Queequeg’s shoulder, looks up at him. “I can’t—I don’t know how to make you less afraid. I wish I could—help you. Like you’ve helped me.” He is almost apologetic, here. “I wish that I could promise you safety. I can’t. I _ can _ promise you that... that I’ll be here till the end. Whatever that is.”

Queequeg watches Ishmael while he speaks, eyes wide open, clinging to every word like they are lifelines thrown out in the dark. He grows softer in Ishmael’s embrace, lets himself melt into the unfamiliarity, the comfort, of the new shape. Ishmael smiles softly, sadly, presses his lips to Queequeg’s temple. 

“I know I haven’t. I haven’t exactly been the best about. Giving to you as much as you have given me.”

“Ishmael...”

“I—I haven’t.”

“You know that’s not true.”

Ishmael shakes his head, smiles again, presses a gentle finger to Queequeg’s lips. 

“What I am trying to say is that I—I am here for you. I will do anything I can for you. Even if I haven’t—been so good about showing that.” 

Ishmael wipes a tear from Queequeg’s cheek, kisses his skin where it had been. Queequeg smiles at that, really smiles, eyes closed and dark eyelashes fanning over his cheeks and a soft warm glow touching his skin, and it’s enough to make Ishmael’s heart flutter and stop, enough to make him fall in love with him all over again. He beams and chuckles faintly, eyes squinted shut, presses his forehead against Queequeg’s, lets himself be overwhelmed by him for a moment. He kisses Queequeg’s neck, beneath his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Their cheeks brush together and he lets his lips trail over Queequeg’s face.

Ishmael opens his eyes, staring at Queequeg with a worried smile on the corner of his lips. His brows furrow and his words are reluctant to come out. 

“It is okay to need things, too. You can let yourself need help.”

Queequeg’s lips part, like he’s about to say something, but he closes them again. He is still shaking, a little, he is still wary, a little, of letting himself hurt and break and fall apart. But he nods, slowly. Breathes deeply and nods again, more surely. Ishmael looks up at him, stares with that wide-eyed adoration he has long given up trying to hide, that same look that Queequeg thinks each time that he might die to earn again. 

Ishmael tilts his head back to kiss him, hands curled around his face and neck. Queequeg smiles against him, deepens the kiss and weaves his fingers through Ishmael’s hair and uncurls his question-mark spine and kisses him till his shaking and quivering stops. 

They pull apart, and Queequeg is unable to open his eyes for a moment after. He breathes in, out, takes in Ishmael’s warmth and softness and the feel of their bodies pressed together. He buries his face into Ishmael’s neck again and lets him squeeze him tight and close. When he speaks it’s barely above a whisper. 

“Thank you.”

Queequeg feels Ishmael’s lips against his skin, feels him breaking into a smile, and he breathes a long sigh of relief. 

He is _ exhausted _, but here, he thinks, is a soft place to land. 

Ishmael holds him, wraps himself around him, protects him. And Queequeg lets him. 


End file.
